For Evil and for Good
by Tristan-the-Dreamer
Summary: Crime and Punishment fic; major spoilers for book. Raskolnikov looks on as Sonia realizes she is in severe despair for herself and her siblings.
1. I

A/n: This story picks up directly after Katerina Ivanovna has died. In this story, I removed Svidrigolov so there is no one to give Sonia money and take care of the other children. I wanted to see what Sonia would do when put under in the ultimate situation of despair.

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"You see, Sonia!" Raskolnikov cried, pointing to the form of Katerina Ivanovna. "It's just as I said! She is dead, though blood still drips down her face! What will you do now, Sonia?" He sneered coldly, his face disfigured by cruelty, though in his chest his heart beat unbearably fast. "And what will she do now?" He wondered, trembling in anticipation. "Can it be her trust in God will help her even now? No, impossible!" He watched intently, as Sonia stared at the dead body of her mother.

"No, she can't be dead," Sonia said faintly, sinking to the floor. "She can't be…dead…"

"Doctor, isn't she dead?" Rodia demanded.

The Doctor, wanting nothing more than to leave this bare and sinful room, shook his arm free from the young man's insistently gripping fingers, put on his hat and left.

"You see, no hope!" Rodia cried gleefully. "Now we shall see, now we shall see! Look, Sonia, see the New Testament on the shelf! Read again the story of Lazarus, perhaps Katerina Ivanova will be raised from the dead!"

Sonia turned quickly to him, her dark eyes filled with anger. "Do not speak that way of God's Word! You don't understand, you will never understand!" Her breath became uneven and she put a hand over her face to hide the beginning tears.

"I understand you have no hope in the world now! Katerina Ivanovna is dead, and with her have died her crazed plans and hopes. Or do you still plan to open the girl's boarding school, Sonia? Hm, yes, you'd better get ready straight away! Find your best dress, put on the green shawl and go about town to get some money. Polenka will write the letters to all the rich ladies, telling them of the school to come, and how you will have the best teachers and lessons, won't you now?" Rodia looked with glittering eyes at the little girl, who was clinging to her brothers and sisters, shaking with tears.

"How can you be so cruel?" Sonia burst out, heaving with sobs. "We have no one, no one in the world, and you mock our pain? The devil has still not let go of you, he is making you do terrible things. Don't you understand? You must confess!"

"Be quiet, Sonia," Rodia said sternly at once, glancing about the room in wild fear that someone might have heard her. 'What I do is my own business, and none of yours. You look to your own business! If not a boarding school, what then, eh? Shall you put the green shawl on Polenka and send her out with a yellow ticket?"

Polenka whimpered in terror and looked to Sonia.

"You are the devil!" Sonia screamed, taking all her little siblings in her arms and looking in agony at Raskolnikov. "Why are you saying these things? Go away, Rodia, please," she added, subsiding into her normal timid and submissive state. "We have to make arrangements for the…for the funeral, and now I must ask the Kapernaumovs if they can lend me some blankets and pillows for the children…so please go, we have much work to do still tonight," she finished, looking at him from beneath sorrowful brows.

"H'm! Still hoping for the best," Rodia muttered, turning away and pacing before the pitiful body laid out on the bed. "Blankets and pillows—it will keep them warm for the night, but what about their stomachs, eh? What will fill them? Perhaps you'll merely do…more work, Sonia, do you understand? More work would earn more money for food, only…where will the children stay while you work?" He grinned like a madman.

Sonia looked up at him with her childish eyes, and then buried her face on Polenka's shoulder.

"It must be so," Rodia said, beginning to weave like a drunken man as he paced up and down. "There is no other hope…you will tell her to go out, and she will say, 'Sonia, must I really do a thing like that?' but you—you will not be as Katerina Ivanovna was. No, what will she be like?" Raskolnikov paused, musing dazedly to himself. "She will not say, 'some treasure!' No, but what will she say? Sonia, what will you say?" He turned abruptly to her. "Or will you all go mad, perhaps that's what will happen. Oh, go on and cry. Crying does no use…Sonia, you fool, you should have stolen that money from Peter Petrovich! You should have stolen that hundred ruble note…no, Sonia, I tell you what we'll do." Rodia's voice and eyes glittered and twitched, and Sonia looked up in fear, her face still dripping.

"What—what are you talking about?"

"Only listen! Peter Petrovich is very wealthy, you saw all that money yourself. He got thrown from his rooms, but…we can find him. And he is an evil man, more evil than me. We will find him, and…can you guess what we'll do then? We can easily be rich."

"No! Oh, Rodia, no, we can't do that! I won't do evil, not even…no, I can't do it!"

Raskonikov gestured violently with both his arms. "You won't do evil. Not even to live? What has made you such an angel? Or are you a demon? Only a demon would let her family starve, and they will starve."

"Oh no, no, they will not starve," Sonia cried, holding Polenka tighter as the children set up a wail. "They will not starve, they will not," she repeated breathlessly, her glazed and frightened eyes traveling around the bare room, and she shuddered whenever they came to rest on the bed.

The feverish light went out in Raskonikov's eyes, and his knees failed him; he sank to the floor, head bowed over the bare floorboards. "No…they will not starve," he said at last, his arms shaking as they tried to support him. "Stay here, Sonia, and…and I will return in one hour."

He left the apartment, hearing the children's cries fade into the night. He was shaking again as if in fever, and he swallowed repeatedly, feeling a strange dry tightness in his throat. "They will not starve," he repeated, walking slowly but with purpose. "No…they will not starve. In fact they…they will flourish." The daylight had by now completely faded away, and the passersby in the street were lifeless shadows. He was unnoticed as he slipped into the alley, creeping down it and finally into the large courtyard, and approaching the stone.

"They will not starve," he said under his breath, setting his hands on the sides of the rock, and preparing to push at it. He braced his knees and took his mind to the task with great difficulty, as he was now shaking violently from head to foot, and he gasped in terror at ever settling of the rubbish heaps, and every patter of a stray animal's paws, as it rooted about in the garbage for a scrap to eat. Finally Rodia set his shoulders and pushed against the rock, enough for it to tip back, and with his booted foot he pushed out to the side the objects secreted beneath. When he let the stone settle back, he stooped to the ground and shoved the money and valuables down his shirt, then wildly slapping the dirt from his knees, he left the courtyard.

"Sonia will not take this money, if she knows what it is," he said huskily to himself, dodging shadows on the way back to the apartment. "But it's all right. I'll tell her a priest gave it to me, or some nonsense like that, she'll believe it, she's so simple."

All at once Raskolnikov froze. "Has God, then, provided for Sonia after all? She believed in it and it has come, her salvation. She will prosper with this money. But money from crime? Has God provided through a thief and murderer? Is this the God Sofia Semianovna believes in? No, impossible. It must be, then, that I have not committed a crime! It must be I am on a divine mission, yes, I am doing good, as I always knew it—I am a true leader after all, my theory is proven! My first step has proven successful after all! The money has been taken from evil and been given for good. That was a terrible first step, but I see I only had to wait for it to ripen. It was well that I did not eat the fruit while it was still bitter, I would have suffered even more. But as it is…yes, I will give this money to Sonia, and then…I will go to the next step. That next step is all so dark before me…but I…I will find it."


	2. II

A/n: I've decided to continue! I'm a little displeased with how short this chapter turned out.. *frowns*...but maybe I'll add to it later.

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He could barely talk from excitement when he returned to the apartment; with shaky hands he put the money pouches in her boney hands, and told her it was God's money.

"What does it mean! What are you speaking of?" Sonia asked warily, peeking into one of the pouches. "So much silver and notes…what do you mean, God's money?"

"Why, simply that…a priest gave it to me. I went to St. Isaac's Cathedral, and told them earnestly I needed some money, they gave it to me from their own pockets, they were true men of God. Now take it, no more words," he said sternly and breathlessly. "You can pay your rent with this money, buy proper food…and a real feather pillow for the children, and shoes, do you hear that?" he turned to the children, who looked up at him with round and watchful eyes.

Sonia still looked at the money in her hands, wavering between belief and doubt. "It seems too easy, Rodia…Katerina Ivanovna begged and begged, and never got anything…"

"Oh, don't be stupid," Raskolnikov said irritably, flapping his hand. "She never begged straight out, her pride wouldn't let her. She accosted passersby and forced them to listen to the tale of her good breeding and miserable descent into poverty, and her fabricated tales. She was too proud and vain for her own good."

"Rodia!" Sonia gasped, quickly covering Kolia's ears. "Don't speak of her like that! She was so good, and wanted nothing but happiness for everyone."

"Strange way to get happiness, beating her children night and day. Oh, well, let's not spoil the celebration. Your troubles are over and you've nothing to worry. Only, make certain you do not speak of where you inherited this money from, and don't make it too obvious you're wealthy," he added, with a grave expression.

"But why not? I'm so grateful, I must tell everyone—yes, everyone must know how God has provided through you!"

"No!" he said quickly. "I don't want people coming up to me in the street to sing my praises—I'm a nervous, strange man, you know that, I like to be alone. And the priests would be embarrassed if their charity were made public. They feel it wrong to—well, you know how it works, you're so pious yourself. Anyhow they'd be awash with requests from the poor if it got out. This was a special situation, you see, and they were also impressed with how…money in your hands would allow you to stop your sinful actions."

"Oh! Rodia, please." Sonia blushed in humiliation. "You know I want only goodness and purity, and work for it as much as I can. Let's not talk about these things, please," she said in desperation, smiling around at everyone with a constrained and pleading smile. "I believe you, Rodia, this is money from God's men. I will accept it, and tomorrow straight away put it to good use," though she had no idea what this 'good use' would be. "A second time you've come to our aid, and I'm so thankful, Rodia," She finished timidly, looking at him with a shy smile. "You're a good man, you know. If only you would not listen to the Devil. But Rodia, where are you going now?"

"Somewhere…home," he muttered, moving to the door.

"Please come to the funeral, Rodia, come tomorrow and I will tell you where it shall be held! Please come and say a few words for Katerina Ivanova, she liked you so much. Oh Rodia, what's the matter? Why are you so angry and sad?" Sonia followed him to the door, and when he looked round at her with a scowl, she pleaded with her eyes.

"Nothing…I'm only hungry," he said stiffly.

"No, I know what it is," she said softly, catching at his sleeve. "Rodia, it is your hidden sin…you must confess, I tell you once more."

"I have not sinned," he hissed at her, glancing about to be certain no one was eavesdropping. "I committed no crime and deserve no punishment. I have proved myself right…there is nothing to fear in following the path before us. You must not be afraid for me, Sonia."

"No, Rodia, you must repent," she said faintly. "Giving us money will not cover your evil sin…you must deny the Devil, you must turn to God! I beg you, do as I said before…kiss the earth you defiled, and beg forgiveness. I am forever grateful for your help, but I cannot let you believe…that it undoes what you did to poor Lizaveta and her sister. You killed innocent souls, and you must confess."

Raskolnikov was barely listening to her. "Do not pine over my soul, Sonia," he broke in at last, irritably. "I do not have a soul like you, I have something better. Now take care of the children, and do remember to close Katerina Ivanovna's eyes. She looks like a terrible dead fish lying on the bed with open eyes."

He pulled free from her timid grasp, and without looking back, he went down the rickety metal stairs.


	3. III

Raskolnikov paused on the stairs up to his room, leaning into the kitchen. "Nastasia?"

"Yes?" The servant asked, hand on her waist.

"Bring me a bowl of cabbage soup, but leave it outside my door--outside the door, do you hear? Don't come in, I'm busy."

"Oh! I see, you're busy now," she laughed, greatly amused. "Your _thinking_ makes you busier and busier! No doubt you'll be making money soon just by furrowing your brow."

Disgusted with her laughter, Raskolnikov continued upstairs and locked himself in his cubboard of a room. It was stifling as usual, so after lighting several candles he opened the window, grimacing as the noises of children and peasants floated in. He wished they would shut their stupid mouths. "Well, no hope for that." He moved to his table, where he began rifling through the stacks of paper and notebooks. The dust had been an inch thick, and he choked as the dust mixed with the stifling air and nearly smothered him.

He stood by the window for a time, waiting for the dust to settle. As his apathetic gaze traveled about the streets, he looked at the shadows of people passing though the night; a cynical smile touched his lips whenever a shadow's posture held self-importance, urgency, or happiness. At length he looked toward the porter's quarters, where he had stolen the ax; he shivered and turned back to the table. The dust had somewhat settled by now.

"And where is it that I put that essay?" He muttered, diving into the task with frenetic urgency—and his face was just the same as some of the faces he had mocked moments ago. His hands scrambled through the sheets of old lessons and drafts, he came across an unopened letter from Razumikin and threw it to the floor. "Where is the essay?" He raged, opening a notebook violently and beginning to flip through it, nearly tearing the pages. "Here it is!" he cried at length in relief, and throwing himself down on his couch, he began to read the whole thing through; it was hard to read in the bobbing candlelight, but he read it through several dozen times, until every point and rebuttal contained in the essay were burned anew in his mind. The ending ran thus:

"In short, the novel's protagonist was fairly developed in terms of psychology. If the author had included a bout of illness (which, as I said earlier, is absolutely present when a man commits a grave crime), and more thoroughly addressed the various neuroses that are only hinted at, I should say this novel stands on a level of its own. Unfortunately, the laxity that the author displayed in research and imagination resulted in yet another crude attempt at a psychology novel.

I must wonder when a real breakthrough will come in our Russian literature—furthermore, I wonder when it is that authors will fully grasp that there is something present in all crimes, something, indeed, present in all men: is the crime valid or invalid? That is, whatever "crime" has been committed, has it been committed by such a man and in such a way that the crime is no longer a crime?

'Such a man,' I wrote. Yes, for surely men are divided in two simple groups: 1. Ordinary men 2. Extraordinary men. The ordinary man has no right to commit a crime, that is, to steal or kill. He is bound by the rules of man because he _is _a man. The extraordinary man, on the contrary, is utterly free from the rules of man. It is very much the same way that a mother tells her little child she will spank it, should it get too close to the stove. Does the mother spank her older girl, fully thirteen years old, when she comes to the stove? No; this rule does not apply to the older girl, since she is clever enough to know that stoves can hurt her, and moreover she knows which parts of the stove grow hot and which stay cool. She can come to the stove easily, with experience, and help the mother cook.

In the same way, some men do not need to follow rules, since they are _outside_ the very realm of rules. They are smarter, stronger, and quite charismatic. They are the Napoleons of the world and deserve to be free from petty obstacles which hold back their shining and potential-soaked career.

This was meant to be simply a book-review, and I beg my reader's indulgence in that I could not resist including my personal beliefs in the theories of crime literature."

Raskolnikov closed the notebook at last with a pale and grave face. He looked to the window; the early sun was breathing softly at the sill, warming the grey brick with a blush of red and orange. "The extraordinary man," he murmured, setting the notebook aside and going to the window. He could see the faces and expressions of passersby now, but he drew no interest from studying that. Instead he looked at their coats and hats and tried to gauge how much each had cost, and in turn how much bread that money could have bought.

"How does the extraordinary man take his power? By killing…but so I did, and I used the money for good…but what is the second step? Ah!" He cried in horror, sagging over the windowsill. "I should not have given all the money to Sonia! I should have saved some for myself, to purchase a weapon…or a train ticket, something. Something to get to the second step. Now—will I have to start over? But who else could I kill?" He crept to the couch, trembling, and putting the notebook under his pillow, he lay his head down and fell into an exhausted sleep.

When he awakened at a knocking, the room was flooded with sunlight. He did not answer, instead he stared in drowsy disorientation, and the knocking grew louder.

"He must be sleeping, sir—look, he hasn't even touched the soup I left for him last night!"

"Well, try once more. I'd like very much to talk with him."

Raskolnikov's eyes opened wide; it was Lebiziotnovik's voice.


	4. IV

The door rattled again. "Come on, you lazy dog, wake up!" Nastasia demanded.

The haze of sleep and torment of his thoughts quelled, and Raskolnikov stretched out his arm and unlatched the door from his couch. The door opened and Nastasia came in, pointing at the soup. "Well, so you put me to the trouble of getting you dinner, and here you've not touched it at all. The flies have been at it all night, do you still want it? Lazy fool! Do you know," she turned to Lebeziatnikov, who entered beside her, "some weeks ago his mother sent him thirty rubles. Thirty rubles! He might have paid off his rent, or at least lived like a king for some days. But no, no, that's too easy and straightforward for a _thinker _like him! Razumikin bought him some new clothes, since he wears nothing but rags, and we got him some proper beef, tea, and a nice tablecloth. And he spent the rest on a funeral for some stranger!"

"Clothes! Ah, that's strange, though," Lebeziatnikov exclaimed, snapping his fingers. "I've been scrounging round for a nice set of clothes; mine are a bit ratty. You have a spare set, then, may I see it?"

"Take it, and welcome," Raskolnikov spat, gesturing irritably to a corner of the room, where he had thrown Razumikin's careful purchases. "I want nothing to do with those clothes."

"Idiot," Nastasia scolded, setting the soup on the dust-smeared table. "Mister Razumikin took great care in picking those items out, he put effort into making you look like a respectable tutor. And you through the chance away, you're a lazy fellow!"

"Yes, I am lazy and evil. Now get out of here, Nastasia!" And he threw a pillow at her.

"Forget dinner," she sniffed, and took her leave.

Meanwhile Lebeziatnikov was marveling at the clothes. "Wonderful, wonderful! I am, as you may have heard, working hard with the rest of the followers to get the commune in order and a strong start. We haven't enough money yet, so I am going to dress up in fine clothes, do you see, and brush my hair with water and put on my best manners, and I am going to go about Petersburg, all the important people, and ask for money."

"And do you think they'll give it to you?"

"They will have no choice! When an intelligent, important businessman, wise in the world, hears my logical presentation of the idea, they'll give like mad! You see, the communes are a new revolution, the physical representation of the changing mindset of modern Russia! I badly wish that Sonia and her siblings will join the commune—she's listened eagerly to me speak of it, the equality and freedom to be found—but equality and freedom are only ideas, you see, until we can construct the physical building. Then all will behold…ah, it will be so lovely! It's Sonia I came to talk to you about, actually," he remarked, holding up the hat and putting his head sideways. "Yes, this is a nice hat," he murmured to himself.

"Sonia? What do you mean?" Raskolnikov asked sharply, sitting up on his couch.

"Oh! Well about the communes, or rather, what she will do to fend for herself until they're ready for her to come. I know she hasn't a kopeck to her name, and now all those little children! I did not want to bother her, she seemed so upset—"

"And wouldn't you be upset, if your mother died in front of you, choking on blood and singing so strangely?"

"No reason to get so hot, we see things the same way, I think!" Lebeziatnikov cried, setting the hat in his lap. "You're an honorable man, I know that, though…we definitely disagree on certain matters, such as private charity."

"What!" Rodia jumped to his feet, trembling. "What do you mean by private charity?"

"But…wasn't the servant telling the truth just now, about your giving the money to Katerina Ivanovna for the funeral?" He asked, bewildered. "She wasn't lying?"

"Oh…yes, the funeral dinner for Marmaledov, yes," Rodia said faintly, sinking back to the couch. "I was only…confused for a minute. Yes, I gave money, but what of it?"

"It's only I cannot agree in those actions. Now, don't be angry! The poor must be helped, of course, and turning a blind eye is a sin. But it's better to do things in a structured manner, so that he most people possible can be helped."

"And meanwhile, poor people like Sonia will die under your nose, and you don't care!"

"Ah! How badly disadvantaged us revolutionaries are! The old thinkers have hundreds of years of science and experience to back their words up, and we new thinkers must build the track under the moving train! Such turmoil we go through to bless the next generation! But don't you see that I am worried for Sonia Semianovna, since I came here just to see what may be done for her?"

"I've done one better than that already," Rodia said scornfully, though he was still pale and trembling. "I begged enough money for her to last a long time."

"Really! So she can be at ease for the time? Well that's a great thing, my mind can be at rest concerning her, and I can put all my energy into the communes! Now just tell me, Raskolnikov, so I can know where the best and most generous men are. Where did you manage to find such giving people?"

"I'd rather keep that to myself. If your ideas about the communes are as great as you believe, you could ask a butcher and he'd give you all his money."

"Don't, I beg you, speak ill of my plans," Lebeziatnikov said, sternly. "I like you, but I've had enough of people sneering and calling me a fool and an idiot. And after having Peter Petrovich share my lodgings for the last weeks, pretending to be so interested in my plans—but gradually, I saw through it all, and I saw his hidden sneers. I've had enough, I tell you! You're right, I don't need to worry about where to ask for money. I will ask everyone! And if they don't want—"

"But aren't you asking them to give to a private charity?" Raskolnikov interrupted with a sly and cold smile, though he was still pale.

Lebeziatnikov rallied with a scowl. "No, I am gathering funding for the beginnings of a movement that will benefit all Russia, educate everyone, and show them the best way to live! We are a practical experiment to the world, to prove that free marriages and the absence of common rules are how we shall thrive! And that settles the matter," he finished firmly, clapping the hat on his head and getting to his feet, arms full of the other garments. "Give my regards to Sonia Semianovna, or I may visit her myself. I will see how my work progresses. Thank you for the clothes, Rodian Romanovich," he added, smiling suddenly in happiness, and not realizing that the clothes were a private charity gift.

"Wait a bit, wait!" Rodia commanded, putting both hands on the couch and leaning forward in thought. "You said Peter Petrovich mocked your ideas, yes?"

"Yes, that's right. He mocked and deceived."

"And didn't he deceive everyone at the funeral dinner, trying to paint Sonia as a thief?"

"It was a lucky thing I came by and was able to prove her innocent!"

"Peter Petrovich, it is also plain, treated my mother and sister badly, putting them in the cheapest apartment and trying to manipulate my sister, even at the last moment. So it's plain to me—that is, Lebeziatnikov, do you think Peter Petrovich is an evil man?"

Roused to indignation by Raskolnikov's words, and his own personal recollections of Peter Petrovich's injustice, Lebeziatnikov fell away from logic and theory, and his face set in a scowl of pure emotional reaction. "He's an evil man, a terribly evil man! He is certainly not a Christian!"

"And… Lebeziatnikov," Raskonikov said slowly. "Will you come tomorrow, come and have tea with me, and tell me more about the communes. I ask as an interested man, not a flatterer."

"Yes, I see in your eyes you have true interest!" Lebeziatnikov cried in delight. "I will certainly come tomorrow and tell you all about it! I am so glad, the world is turning right once again! Sonia is well cared for (by illegitimate charity, but we won't speak of that), I have fine new clothes, and now you're interested in the communes! It's all going so wonderfully! Goodbye, Rodia, you are such a kind man! I'll see you tomorrow!"

When his guest had left, Raskolnikov sat quietly on the couch, listening to the flies buzz about the soup.


End file.
